Salvator Vitiello
58 years old.
The monster of Napoli.
Cold, ruthless, and feared even by the fearless.
A true Italian Capo, forged in blood and war, a man whose name alone sent armies to their knees. His presence was an iron fist wrapped in smoke and steel—merciless, calculated, deadly. To the world, Salvator was an untouchable god of violence.
But to one girl, he was simply Nonno.

YN, the daughter of his eldest son Luca, had charmed him since she was little—with her bright smile, her playful stubbornness, and the softness only she dared show to the old wolf. In her, Salvator saw not just blood, but fire—the heir he never thought he would have. Fierce, ruthless, best in hand-to-hand combat even at seventeen, she was already his shadow, the weapon he would forge into legend.

When Salvator announced the throne of the Vitiello empire would not pass to his sons, but to YN, the world listened—and trembled.

Now, under the morning sun, the mansion’s vast lawn echoed with the pounding of determined footsteps. Luca, his wife Aria, and his brothers Mattheo and Tom stood to the side, watching, half in pride, half in worry. YN ran, her body moving with disciplined fury, completing her seventh round of the enormous estate as part of the morning ritual.

Salvator stood apart, his sharp eyes following her every step with the pride of a king watching his rightful successor.

He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily in the cool air, before speaking in his low, gravelly voice, words edged with iron and affection:

"The blood of a lion... born in the body of a girl. Let the world kneel, grand-daughter. You are Vitiello."

And YN ran faster.